


I'll Be Roasting Marshmallows, While the World Burns

by callmecathy



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fallout of Finch's cover being blown, Friendship only, Gen, Root and Reese continue their therapy session, Set after God Mode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmecathy/pseuds/callmecathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Finch is shot, Reese is forced to ally himself with Root to find the person responsible for the attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place two months after God Mode; canon-based, but on the presumption that the Carter/Elias situation is resolved and Finch/Reese are receiving numbers like before. Only AU in that this will get royally jossed by Season 3.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. (sadly)  
> Warning: Canon-levels of violence.  
> No beta. Any plot holes, medical, geographical, or any other technical mistakes are my own.  
> Be gentle! I'm new at this.

 "You're beginning to remind me of an owl, Mr. Reese."  
Reese turned back to Finch, raised an eyebrow. But the other man was right: for the duration of their walk, he'd spent enough time glancing over his shoulder that he might well be giving off the likeness of a bird with its head turned 270 degrees around. "Gray owl or barn owl?" He said.  
Finch's lips quirked.  
Reese resisted the urge to look back again. "Just... a feeling I've had lately. As if someone's watching us." Field work: it was half brains, half gut. Reese had learned long ago to trust his instincts, but the lengthy duration of his edginess was making him wonder if he was only picking up the slack of Finch's paranoia. The timing, too, contributed to the theory: it had started up after he had extricated Finch from Root a second time. Likely his worry over Finch than anything else.  
"I might remind you that we'd be in your car now if you exercised more discretion." They were walking because their latest number, the owner of a food truck, had been plotting to kill one of his regular customers- who had been having an affair with his wife. Somewhat predictably, Reese resolved the situation by slamming his car into the food truck. Their operation had given a lot of business to the tow services in New York.  
They passed an ambulance pulled onto the curb, a pair of paramedics in the front seat balancing takeout on their knees. Echoic thuds came up from the boardwalk as Reese and Finch walked. It was busy out, the area scattered with families and couples and stragglers; the air was filled with the hum of traffic, conversation, smelled of Thai and pretzels and ripe fruit.  
"I can call a taxi, Finch."  
He waved him off. "It's a nice ni-"  
Finch crumpled to the ground. Reese didn't even register what it was- thought, for a horrified second, his bad leg had given out, that maybe he'd done too much leg work. Then Reese saw the blood. And replaying through his mind fast as wildfire, those sounds: Finch's sharp intake of breath, that thready, unmistakable ping.  
Reese crashed to his knees beside the other man.  
There was a bullet lodged in Finch's stomach and blood was pouring out of him like a faucet with the tap left on. Reese tore off his jacket, balled it up.  
His head turned frantically. His back was tensed, anticipating the bite of a bullet between his shoulder blades- all his training was screaming at him to move, to get under cover, every survival instinct warring against staying stationary.  
"Finch-" With one hand he applied pressure, with the other he propped Finch up beneath his arm. "Harold. Look at me."  
His eyes blinked open. The blood had soaked through the layers of his suit; his skin was an ashen, papery color.  
"John..."  
And damnit Reese's hands were shaking, he'd done covert ops and done much of it without backup, he'd never panicked before but he was panicking now.  
"Just hold on. I'm going to take you to a doctor."  
"John- just wanted to- say..." His eyes closed.  
Reese looked around wildly. There was a small crowd standing around him, frozen.  
"He needs _help!_ " Reese snarled, except his voice sounded too wavy to be a snarl. The ambulance. Paramedics. He saw a shaken woman to his left, hand pressed against her mouth. "There's an ambulance back there, please-"  
She nodded and took off.  
Reese looked down at Harold. Their hands, both their hands, were slick with blood. "No." He said. "No you are not going to die." His breaths were in tattered little gasps. "I'm not going to let you."

* * *

 Reese paced, every step winding tighter and tighter. They hadn't let him ride in the ambulance- the paramedic gave him a look like she knew exactly what he was capable of- and he'd sped to the hospital they'd told him they were taking Finch to. Reese had asked for him at the front desk when he'd reached the building- a blinding moment of terror when the nurse said she had no record of Finch's arrival, then another mouse click and she found his file, the letters DOA racing through Reese's head the entire time- _"In surgery_ , they'd told him, _all you can do is wait."_  
There was nothing he hated more than being helpless.  
He heard footsteps and turned.  
Carter and Fusco hurried up to him.  
"We heard the report." Carter said, her eyes dark with worry. "Finch?"  
He nodded.  
"John." She started to touch his arm, then flinched.  
He looked down at himself. Blood: heavy smears across his white button down, staining his hands, dried beneath his fingernails.  
Tentatively, Carter placed her hand on his arm again. "You should go wash up." She said quietly. "We'll be here."  
Reese started to turn, woodenly. "You two don't need to stay." He said.  
Fusco snorted. "Who's going to keep you from kneecapping the staff?" He looked around: there was a row of chairs- pastel-colored, uncomfortable plastic things- backed against a wall. He sank into one. Gave Reese a brief nod. A moment later, Carter followed Fusco's lead.  
And for a moment- just a moment- Reese felt his worry give way to gratefulness.

* * *

They waited. Reese hadn't wanted to leave long enough for a change of clothes so he sat beside the detectives in his bloodstained shirt, hands resting on his knees, shifting his weight, trying to stay still and failing. He could tell his twitchiness was setting their teeth on edge but neither of them commented.  
Three hours later a doctor in scrubs came out of the room. Brown hair, dark eyes, sharp mouth- the kind of man who would be good at bringing bad news. He introduced himself as James Kendall.  
They stood.  
"How is he?" Reese said.  
The doctor exhaled. "I'm very sorry."  
No.  
"We lost him. The blood loss-"  
A terrible roaring filled Reese's head. _"Bled out, couldn't..."_ A numbness slowly seeped through the pit of his stomach but all his nerve endings were tingling like they'd been scorched. He drew in a rough, ragged breath.  
"No." Reese whispered, and his voice, his voice didn't even sound like his, it was shaky and desperate and lost. "No."  
"I'm very sorry." The doctor repeated, briskly turning.  
Fusco bowed his head and there was a horrible anguish threatening to bury Reese alive and Carter was looking at him, and he couldn't stand the grief in her eyes- because it meant that this was real. She put her hand on his arm. This time he jerked away. He took a rapid step back.  
"Carter _no_."  
"I am so sorry John."  
Reese closed his eyes. He dug down deep into that icy numbness and forced himself to remember everything he was with the CIA, everything he'd had to be. He opened his eyes and walked past the detectives.  
"Where are you going?" Carter said.  
He didn't turn. "To find the person who did this."


	2. Chapter 2

The cops had strung yellow tape around the bloody planks and a cruiser was parked up against the rails, lights flashing. Several uniforms cased the area. Reese stood a few feet away. If he were the shooter, where would he shoot from?

It wasn't a route that he and Finch regularly took; the shooter wouldn't have been able to plan far ahead. It had to be a covert spot, out of sight of the a busy area- yet easy to spot on short notice, easy to arrange a solid position.

Reese revolved, slowly. The shooter had shot from in front of them. Some crates at the far end of the docks: too exposed. One of the food vendors- no: poor sightline. One of the surrounding buildings... difficult to access.

He saw it then, the small lift of a staircase attached to the side of a building on the far side of the boardwalk. Fast, easy, hidden: exactly the place Reese would have scoped out for himself.

Reese didn't like the way he was thinking, didn't like the logical, flat way he was considering the best location to murder Finch from. If he were in the feeling mood it would have sent of a shudder of unease through him.

Reese reached the stairs, knelt, eyed the ground. Some scuffed footprints. And rolled under the door, small gleam of a shell casing. Carefully, he wrapped it in a tissue and slid it into his pocket. He stood. If there was one thing he had learned from Finch, it was that there was always- always- a camera, somewhere. He found it huddled under the gutter of the building opposite to his.

The building was a slow-dying candy factory and the smell of chocolate and sweets made his stomach turn. He was standing behind the chair as the manager typed at his computer, bringing up the security feeds.

"Ookkay." The manager mumbled- a spare man, glasses, a few strands of hair and a rumpled suit. "What time did you say?"

"9:20. Set it at 9:00."

The footage wound forward. 9:10- the figure of a man came into view, moving rapidly. His duffel bag beat against his side as he climbed the stairs, knelt beside the railing. His sniper's rife balanced easily against the railing.

The shell of the bullet in Finch's corpse felt hot in Reese's pocket.

"Zoom in." Reese said, his voice coming out in a low undertone. He braced his hands against the back of the manager's chair, noticed the man's shoulders tense.

The picture blurred, then cleared. The figure in the picture was well-built, strong, a few shy of six feet. It took Reese less than three seconds to place why the silhouette looked familiar: Hersh.

* * *

"Carter." Reese said. "I need you to meet me at the docks." He hung up.

He leaned against an ally wall and waited; Carter and Fusco parked a few feet away, looking around.

"You didn't have to come." Reese told Fusco. Fusco shot a glance at Carter. Reese had a feeling that Fusco didn't want him alone with the other detective.

"The shell-casing." Reese said, pulling it out of his pocket and dropping it into the evidence bag Fusco extended. "Found it over there. Dust for prints- but I doubt you'll find anything."

"And what are you going to do, John?" Carter asked.

"I already told you."

Her mouth tightened. "No, I mean what are you gonna do when you find him?"

Reese met her eyes. "You know what I'll do."

A muscle twitched in her jaw. "I saw this in Iraq. People burning through revenge because it was all they had left to hold on to. But you- you _don't_ have to do this. The past year, the lives you've saved, the people you help- you can keep going. Honor his memory like that, John."

Reese turned away from her and strode into the street.

 

* * *

 Carter watched Reese walk into the darkness. She turned to Fusco. "We gotta stop him, Fusco. Before he kills someone or gets himself killed."

Fusco was eying the shell-casing. It was gleaming oddly off the streetlights. "Yeah? And how do you plan to do that? This is Fearsome we're talking about."

Slowly, Carter held up her phone.

Fusco blinked. "You blue-jacked his phone?"

She shoved it back into her pocket. "Let's go."

 

* * *

He had her. Finally. He'd been tailing Hersh for two weeks, ghosting dead alleyways and sneaking into abandoned hotel rooms and off-the-map warehouses. Meeting places, dead drops. Reese had stalked Hersh through New York and then to Washington, Pennsylvania, back to the Capital. The bullet casing had come back clean but he'd called on his assets, pulled out every stop. _"I need information. Don't say anything, don't ask any questions. Just do what I ask."_ What people forgot was that Reese was a damn good op, far past his physical skills. He could push away every thought, fear, discomfort- _grief pain Finch-_ and home in on a single goal till it was focused in his sightline small as a pinprick.

Reese watched as Hersh made his way to a stalled car. They were on a nice street, brick and white pillars, blooming flower boxes, trailing branches of birch trees. Every minute he had Hersh in his sightlines his finger itched on the trigger of his gun, but no- he didn't want the op, he wanted the handler. Or, more accurately, he didn't want just the op, he wanted Control, he wanted all of them.

And whatever rational part of his mind that was still functioning reminded him that revenge had done nothing to fill that damned hole inside of him before, and it wouldn't this time, but he told himself he didn't care. Carter's choice was in his head, somewhere- but Reese had taken the easy route before and he was going to now.

The room was on the second floor of a two-story, a dusty breathing-hazard of a room with white sheets flung over the furniture, the bed. Just walking in had sent up clouds of dust, and against the shafts of sunlight the room had taken on an odd, foggy look. Reese had bought the entire building with Finch's money. _You will be provided for,_ his employer had told him once. And it was true: Reese's accounts were full, more than full, he could have bought anything, gone anywhere, and still had enough to make millionaires jealous.

Reese had shoved a trunk against the wall beneath a partly-open window. His sniper's rifle was braced on top of it. The car door clicked as Hersh opened the door and slid in. There was a woman sitting in the backseat: all Reese could see was half of her face, shadowed by hair, a pair of gloved hands folded over a file on her lap.

He looked through the scope.

Crosshairs.

He exhaled slowly, calculating the wind, the distance, the glass of the backseat window. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Reese snapped something at it- idiotically- and tossed it onto the ground behind him.

He focused back on the car. He would go for Control first, he'd already decided that- but he wanted Hersh, too, and Reese knew the assassin would react instantly and efficiently after his handler went down. He would drop flat to the seat, out of sight, command the man in the front seat to drive. Reese's position wasn't good enough to hit the driver. Unless... in his mind's eye he watched himself shoot Control, blow a tire. Wait for minutes or hours until Hersh emerged, then finish the job.

Reese exhaled again and put his finger on the trigger.

His phone was still buzzing.

Reese saw the woman lean forward, the driver start to put his hand on the ignition. Now.

"I don't like being ignored, John."

Reese jumped violently, jerking away from his rifle.

"John."

He looked around wildly. That voice- _her_ voice. It echoed up from the floor- or more accurately, his phone. He snatched it off the boards and held it to his ear.

"Root." He said warily.

"Hello John. Since you weren't answering your phone, I had to hack my way in. I turned the speakerphone on. I hope you don't mind."

"I'm busy." Reese hissed. He started to hang up.

"Wait- he's alive, John!"

Reese froze.

"Harold's alive."


	3. Chapter 3

Finch opened his eyes. The pain hit him in a wave. He sucked in a ragged breath and the wound in his abdomen flared.

"I apologize for the severity of your injury. We had planned it somewhat more efficiently; unfortunately, events made improvision unavoidable."

Breathe. In. Out. After the accident he'd taught himself every pain technique in the book, and he was using every one now. He waited until he had some nominal amount of control of it before turning his head.

The man was maybe ten, fifteen years older than Finch, not particularly tall and not necessarily handsome, and by all accounts shouldn't have made more of an impression than a typical elderly gentleman. But the man had _presence,_ past the immaculate dress, past the cold, intelligent eyes.

"What do you mean?" Finch rasped. He coughed, weakly, the movements giving hell to his injury.

"You must be thirsty." Greer said. He reached behind him and produced a glass of water, carefully handing it to Finch.

Finch almost drank- he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, last time he'd been offered water- then hesitated.

"It is by no means poisoned." The man said. "If I wanted to do that, I would have asked one of my staff to slip something into your IV."

He flinched at the utter _powerlessness_ of his situation. Two weeks. Two weeks he'd been trapped in a hospital-like bed, an IV in one arm, monitors beeping as they ran his vitals. For days immediately after the shooting he'd flickered in and out of consciousness, the pain beating down like a hot sun. Greer- the same man who had, Finch knew, used Kara, attempted to gain control of the Machine through his virus, called their organization Decima- slipped in intermittently to ask questions. They hadn't hurt him, not directly- they'd removed the bullet and taken care of the wound. It was deprivation, if anything... no morphine- not that he disagreed, he'd rather deal with pain than a foggy mind-, rations of food, water. But they were wearing him down.

The room was fairly large, an office turned ER room: a couple well-tended plants in the corners, windows boarded over, a beige rug and walls removed of all identifying traces- post marks and holes, but no pictures, photos, anything to indicate where Finch really was. There was a security camera perched at the top corner of the ceiling.

Finch took a drink of the water. The dusty-feel of his throat eased and he quickly finished the rest.

Greer returned the glass to the table, linking his hands behind his back. "You might recall my last question to you before you drifted off."

Finch watched as the lines on the monitors peaked upward. _Where is the Machine?_

Greer raised an eyebrow at the silence. "Well perhaps we can attempt an alternative one, then. After you and your operative reached the payphone, what did you do to the Machine?"

Silence.

"I located the government facility in Portland. I am most convinced the Machine was there at one point. Where did you have it moved?"

Finch focused on the patch of wall above Greer's shoulder. _"You need only answer a few questions. We have more than enough morphine to make you comfortable.",_ they'd said. Finch wondered how long he could hold out- fantasized he could last indefinitely, until they got frustrated enough to kill him. He wasn't hoping for rescue. _"Your partner thinks you're dead. We were particularly thorough."_ And he'd felt- relieved: relieved, that Reese would stay, and maybe, just maybe, that he would continue their purpose.

"Did you alter the code while you had access, Mr. Finch?"

His eyes flicked back to Greer. "You still haven't told me your name- your _real_ name."

"Nor have you yours." Greer smiled at him. "Although I am sure you know how very little rests in a name." He paused, lifted one finger. "For instance- I don't need it to know your role in the building of the Machine. I don't need it to guess that you were responsible for the Arpanet situation some years back."

The lines spiked. He wanted to tear the wires off his skin.

"Yes. I must admit I feel a high degree of respect for you. Very few people can claim to have changed the world as thoroughly as you have." He paused. "You asked why we shot you. The answer is that for the past two months, your government has been attempting to locate, interrogate, and kill you. We couldn't have that."

Those eyes that Reese had talked about- had they been Greer's, or the government's, or both?

The man indicated Finch's wound. The lines around his eyes crinkled. "A dead man dies again."

"You won't stop them. They'll try to find who was behind it. They'll come looking."

"And they will find something. Or to be more precise- _someone_. A disgruntled man, a previous perpetrator of one of your numbers." He dipped his head when Finch blinked. "You weren't difficult to find. Your work has a rather- conspicuous signature." He turned and began walking towards the door. "Get some rest, Mr. Finch. We will resume this conversation at a later date."

Finch knew the man was in little hurry to get his information: the longer he waited, the wearier Finch would become. He was dead twice-over. No one was coming to save him.

His lips twisted in bitter irony. He wondered how he'd gotten to this point, how he was arguing that the same people who had attempted to kill him, had murdered Nathan, would come save him this time.

The door closed behind Greer.

And in the corner of his eye, he saw the blink of red.

The security camera.

It was on.

* * *

Reese could hear his own shaking breaths looping back to him through the speaker of the phone.

"I've never taken you for a conversationalist, John, but this really is quite disappointing. I thought you'd at least ask me where he is."

"You're lying."

"No, John, I'm not."

Out the window, the car was starting to pull from the curb.   "I need to go."

" _Listen_ to me."

He had one more chance. He put his hand on the gun, knelt on one knee.

"The paramedics, the ambulance- do you really think it was coincidence that it just happened to be there when Harold got shot?"

Reese froze.

"That ambulance was bought by an identity that doesn't exist; it isn't even registered with the hospital that they took it to. And the doctor? He called himself Dr. James Kendall, but he isn't on any database. _Do you remember that glitch on the computer when you asked for Harold at the front desk?_ "

Reese's fingers slipped from the gun. His whole body went rigid as he watched Control disappear around the corner.

"Where is he?" Reese said softly.

A pause. "I don't know. But I think we can find him." Another pause. "Turn around, John."

He froze for the span of an instant; then in one smooth moment he'd whipped around, pulling his gun from his waist, finger clean on the trigger. Root was standing in the doorway. Her hair was down, maybe a little longer but just as well-kept; she was dressed in black business slacks, perfect crease, a long silky button-down. She didn't look like a woman who had busted out of a psych ward.

"What are you doing here, Root?"

"The same thing as you are. Until- well. I'm gonna take out my phone. Don't shoot me." She reached into her pocket and cautiously held it in front of him. The screen blinked on- the time stamp was from four days ago, the same day Hersh had landed in D.C.

The recording played.

"I assume it was successful?" A woman- Control?

"It was." Hersh. "But not by us- someone else got to him."

Root clicked off the phone. "I've been monitoring Control for awhile now. For the past two months, they've been doing three things: working the numbers, trying to find the Machine, and planning to kill Harold."

Reese stepped forward. "You knew and you didn't warn us?" He snarled.

"Don't get me wrong. I like Harold. Respect him, admire him... but his welfare is not my concern anymore."

"You mean you don't need him now that he's set the Machine free."

Root smiled at him. "It sounds so Machiavellian when _you_ say it."

"I need proof that he's alive."

"You're not the only quasi-detective around. After I heard that recording I did some digging of my own. A third party is involved. The more I looked, the more discrepancies I found. Hospital records, ambulance, paramedics, the doctor- I don't have proof but I _know_ he's alive. And that's why I'm here. Because whoever has him will almost certainly get the truth from him, and if he tells them something about the Machine..." She flinched. "Things will get _very_ bad."

She could be playing him. It would be easy- too easy, Reese knew by the warmth creeping back into the depth of his stomach, chasing out the hollows; knew by that flicker of hope and the way his lungs were ballooning with oxygen, as if he hadn't breathed for two weeks.

He lowered his gun. "Where do we start?"

* * *

The weather had flat-lined since the evening Finch had been shot: temperatures had dipped, the wind held a bite. The bustle had went with the warmth, leaving bored-looking street vendors and a mostly-abandoned dock. Reese and Root were walking along the boardwalk, their steps matching that familiar echo-thud; it unnerved him tremendously to be placing his feet in those old shadowy ghosts of the steps he'd taken two weeks ago.

But it had seemed logical to start from the beginning.

"The ambulance was-" Root pointed. "There?"

He nodded. "Hersh was that way." He indicated the stairs. "Which means-" He threw out his arm.

Root stumbled into it. "W-" She stopped, seeing why he'd blocked her.

Two weeks and a scrub-down and a good douse of rain and the salty air had reduced it to a light stain, but it was still unmistakable: blood. Reese skirted around it.

"Which means," he continued, nodding in the direction he had found the shell casing, "the second shooter should be over there." He made his way to the staircase, ran his hand along the rail. It was the ideal spot: the exact place he would have chosen. Which meant Hersh had likely arrived first- the other shooter had gotten there later. Reese eyed the alley they were standing in. It would have been possible to park a car, stand on the other side, out of sight of Hersh, and brace a rifle against the front.

Mentally, he ran through the motions, Hersh kneeling by the railing, the second shooter lifting their barrel. But Hersh had got off a shot, maybe a second too late- how many shots had Reese heard? All he remembered was the blinding panic as Finch fell, a distant _pssh_... maybe two.

"Clear line of sight." Reese mused. "They could have killed him, but they weren't aiming for that. They wanted to disable him." He stared at Hersh's staircase. "Why the games? Why make us think he was dead?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Root said quietly.

Reese glanced at her.

"Whoever these people are, their interests are in direct conflict with the government. They want Control _gone._ So they used you. _Let_ you think he was dead. _Let_ you think Control did the hit." Her words got faster, louder, the cruel drip of it seeping through; she met his eyes with those wide, innocuous dark ones of hers. "You are a mercenary, a weapon. The person responsible for what happened to Harold holds the gun and points it at the people he wants dealt with and he uses people like you to do it. You're the bullet, John, nothing more."

It took several moments for Reese to be sure his voice would come out even. Finally, he said: "I appreciate you speaking in my colloquial."

She turned away. "We need the footage from the surveillance cams above where the ambulance was." She began walking towards the opposite side of the street.

He slipped in front of her, forcing her to stop."Why were you monitoring Control?"

Her eyes narrowed as he blocked her. "Someone had to. I needed to make sure they weren't going to try to hurt the Machine."

He tilted his head.

"Let's just say Ernie called to say 'hi' during my stay in..."

"A psych ward." Reese supplied, readily. "The loony bin."

Her mouth tightened. Just enough to allow him a modicum of satisfaction. But not enough to erase the burn of her words; he remembered what Finch had told him, two months ago: _She can hack human beings as easily as she hacks machines._

They went into the building with the surveillance camera, a miniscule Chinese plant shop with air so humid Reese was flashing back to the tropics. Root was on her way to pulling her gun on the manager when Reese flashed his badge.

"You're not a people person, are you?" He murmured in her ear.

They watched the footage: the ambulance, sliding into a parking place fifteen minutes before Finch was shot. The blurry view of two paramedics, unfolding take out boxes, neither eating, both talking into comms and readying medical equipment. They watched as a woman ran up to the car, banging on the glass. Several minutes later the paramedics returned with Finch on their stretcher.

"There." Reese said, as the car was pulling from the curb. "Pause it."

She zoomed in on the license plate without being asked.

Reese strode out of the shop and took out his phone.

The investigation of Finch's shooting had been from hell: a man, unknown on any database, no face to match a name, shot in front of dozens of witnesses. Carter and Fusco had spent the last two weeks cleaning up the pieces; besides asking for the information he had needed to find Control, Reese had given them radio silence.

The phone rang six times in his ear. Seven. Eight. Normally she picked up on the second one.

Just as he was about to hang up, the line opened.

"When were you going to tell me Finch is alive?" Carter said.

Reese blinked. As he understood a smile crept its way onto his lips. "When were you going to tell me you blue-jacked my phone?"

"Not exactly like you called to ask." A hint of anger, this time.

"I'm sorry, Carter."

A pause. "So where are we on Finch?"

"I've got the license plate on the ambulance. I need you to run it. Find out who bought it, where, and when." He heard a piece of paper swish- a notepad, likely- then relayed her the number.

"I'll get back to you."

Carter rang two hours later with a name and an address. Reese and Root tracked it to an off-the-tracks car dealership- there were very few things Reese hated more than car dealers, they made a travesty of the art of stalking people- and turned up another address.

Reese pulled up in front of the house it led them to. It was a solid little brownstone, owned by a man by the name of Jacob Dawson.

"Rather sloppy." Root remarked, plucking a pair of binoculars off the dashboard. "I'd never buy a vehicle that could be traced back to me." The ambulance had been purchased by Dawson's credit card. She peered through the windows. "He has a lovely family."

Reese took the binoculars away from her. Dawson was setting the table and his wife was dishing up something that looked acutely vegetarian. Two children ran into the kitchen.

"Maybe he didn't." Reese said flatly. Dawson wasn't one of the paramedics he had seen at the docks. He got out of his car.

The man opened the door; his wife was behind him.

"Detective Stills. I have to ask you a few questions."

He nodded. "Sure, sure." Dawson glanced at Root.

"This is my-" Reese stumbled.

"Partner. Kelly Dyson. I'm afraid I left my badge in my other purse." Root directed her smile towards his wife. "You know how it is."

"Come in." Dawson said.

They walked down the hall: lined with family photographs, edges of the wall trim showing signs of clumsily-removed wallpaper.

"This is my wife, Carrie. Do you have any leads yet?"

Reese paused. The man had let them in easily, too easily- cops had been here before.

"A few." He said.

"Thank god. I can't tell you how- difficult it's been. You take your identity for granted."

"Please, sit." Carrie said, indicating the sofa. "Tea? Coffee?"

"We won't be staying long." Root said.

"How was your identity stolen, Mr. Dawson?" Reese said.

Dawson cocked his head. "I've already went over this."

"I like to take things from the beginning."

"It was just an online purchase. A good deal- but I guess you know what they say." Dawson shrugged, ruefully. "I didn't even notice for... four months. Small purchases, mostly."

"Did they use your credit card?"

He nodded.

Root glanced at Reese.

"Can I see your computer?" She asked.

"Yes- of course, over there." He waved a hand; Reese resisted the urge to tell them that she had left her IT ID in her other purse, too.

They went over the details of the case, Reese doing his best imitation of a verbal smokescreen, sounds of keys clacking behind them. Once the door had closed behind them Root turned to him.

"Thomas Wakefield." She said, sounding pleased. "The name of the man who stole Dawson's credit card number. He's not a paramedic, he's a surgeon- top of his class in England."

"Do you have his address?"

"Please don't ask me obvious questions."

* * *

  
Wakefield's house was so damned _big_. It was Hudson waterfront real estate, large white pillars against brick, a three story rise above the river. Certainly a surgeon's salary, then.

Reese couldn't help but make an impressed noise as they parked their car under its shadow.

Root glanced up from the laptop she had balanced on her knees. "I see you in something a bit more old-fashioned. Old English rustic?" She paused. "Oak floors. Definitely oak floors."

Reese ignored her, got out of the car. He strode up the drive. A moment later, he heard the staccato of her heels.

"You know, I'm glad we get to do this." Root said, struggling to match his pace. "I always regretted not being able to finish our therapy session. Tell me... does a place like this make you feel... insufficient?"

When this was over he was going to buy her a straitjacket. "What did you find on Wakefield?"

"He relocated six years ago. He's been a practicing surgeon in the States for four of them: Bellevue Hospital. Single- and he has such a big house, pity; he speaks fluent Mandarin, took lessons in college."

A pang- the brief was so unerringly Finch-like. And throughout the day, he'd been solely focused on finding Finch- but the reminder conjured up images of interrogations, torture. Reese almost missed the ambivalence of numbness.

"Oh, and don't worry about the security on Wakefield's home. I took care of it." Root said. "You can thank me later."

"Who said anything about breaking in?" They climbed the steps to the home. "How did you disable it?"

"I didn't _disable_ it, John. I rerouted it. Usually it sends an alert to his phone. I made sure it wouldn't."

Reese rang the doorbell.

They waited.

Reese counted for four minutes. "Guess we're breaking in." He said.

It took him less than two minutes to jimmy the lock, the man really should have invested in a thousand-dollar security system for his million-dollar home.

It was as nice on the inside, bright white walls and wood floors and an expanse of windows that opened to a view of the Hudson. Reese wouldn't have minded living on the river.

"I'm gonna check his computer." Root said. "You look around."

He bit back a sardonic comment and started searching the living room as she disappeared down the hallway. Nothing particularly personal: a couple photos of Wakefield surrounded by medical staff, a few certificates. Whatever life he had had in Britain, he'd left it long behind.

Reese prowled down the hallway, entering what appeared to be Wakefield's office. The computer monitor was on, several lines of code still hovering on the screen. He wondered what Root was doing. The drawers clattered as he pulled them open: sheaves of paper, manila folders, medical reports. A few documents in Chinese. His fingers touched a thick envelope.

Money. Hundred dollar bills in perfect one thousand dollar stacks. He sucked in a breath through his teeth as he wondered how much the shooter had been paid.

Reese went back down the hall. It took him awhile to find the door that led to the garage- there were so _many_ doors. He flicked the lights on.

The first thing he saw was the ambulance, doors flung open to reveal a stretcher and the various shelves of medical equipment. Scrubbed-down and sterilized. The remainder of the garage was surprisingly neat: a- predictably- Porsche alongside the ambulance, a few shelves, mostly empty. He took a step forward.

"Don't move."

Reese grabbed his gun.

The voice was coming from the opposite side of the ambulance- Reese scanned down, saw two pairs of feet. His jaw clenched.

"Thomas Wakefield." He said.

"Put your gun down. Now."

He didn't move.

A scuffling sound, then a gasp.

"Put it down or she dies."

"Reese-" Root snapped, from behind the vehicle. "I am your _best_ chance at finding him."

If Wakefield had been using her as a shield in the open, Reese could have shot him. But cars were another thing entirely.

"Alright." Reese called. He bent and put his gun on the ground, slid it underneath the ambulance with his foot. "I'm not armed." Not technically true- he still had a knife at his waist, but it wouldn't do him much good at the moment.

"Do the same with your phone."

He did.

"Now get in the ambulance."

Reese climbed into the car- it was claustrophobic, he never would have been able to do a medical procedure in the limited space, the low-roofed ceiling.

"Back-up."

Reese's steps clunked against the tin as he moved further into the ambulance. Wakefield slowly came into view, a gun at Root's head. And he was the paramedic Reese remembered: thin features, a long face, cool, light blue eyes. Quickly he shoved Root in and slammed the doors shut.

Reese tried to get around her and around the stretcher and around all the damned medical equipment; it took him too long. He heard something metal- a bar, a lock?- rattle as it was pushed into place. He grabbed onto the side of the ambulance and kicked the doors. Once. Twice.

"He- grabbed me." Root stammered, struggling to regain her balance. "He was in his office. Monitoring us. There were other cameras- the security was a cover."

Reese heard Wakefield's voice.

"Mister- yes. No, I know. I know the line isn't secure."

Reese waved at Root to keep her quiet and pressed his ear against the door.

"-but we have a problem. His partner is here, and a woman. He found us, somehow."

Reese's ear was against the door and his face was still partly turned towards Root. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"What do you want me to do with them?" Wakefield asked. A pause.

The door shook as the man banged on it from the ulterior. Raised his voice. "My employer wants a word with you."

Another moment of silence, then:

"Hello, Mr. Reese."

Reese froze. Even through that cool, grainy film of the speakerphone, the voice was distinctive. It was the same voice that had used Kara, had attempted to gain control of the Machine. Greer, head of Decima.

"Where's Finch?" He said, raising his voice so he could be heard through the doors.

"I do wish you would discontinue this search of yours." Greer said. "You could be of so much more use with me. I greatly admire your work. Tell me, do you have a price?"

Reese planted his hand flat against the ambulance doors. "I spent too many years being used by people like you."

He laughed- a startlingly warm sound. "Mr. Reese- I am nothing like your previous employees. Or your current one. The new Gods-"

Reese spoke over him. "Where. Is. Finch."

Silence. "Very well, Mr. Reese. You and Miss Stanton were always of the finest breed. Mr. Wakefield, I think you know what to do."

" _Greer!_ " Reese shouted.

Footsteps, sound of the ignition; the car jolted into movement and he had to grab onto the rails of the stretcher to keep from falling. Root stumbled into him.

Reese unconsciously reached out and steadied her. "He wasn't expecting us." He said.

"Is this really the best time, John?"

"Can't use someone if you don't even know they're going to come after you."

She sighed. "You're a bit sensitive, aren't you?"

He didn't know why he'd bothered- not when she had only called him things that had ran through his head dozens of times. Reese sidestepped her, gripped the rails and kicked the doors again. They rattled.

"Will you stop that? Unless you plan to jump out of a moving vehicle at fifty miles an hour?"

Reese had been in similar situations too many times to count- albeit, usually he was in the trunk, this was a lot more comfortable- and he judged the speed of the car easily. "More like thirty. And I'm not planning on jumping. We don't want to be trapped in here when he stops."

"The only person that has to be stopped is Decima." Root said. "If they get access-" The car rocked, and they both latched onto something. "I hope you have a plan."

* * *

Carter moved briskly down the hall, dodging cops carrying precariously balanced coffee mugs and detectives reading their files as they walked. Fusco was going in the opposite direction, towards her. She snagged his arm as she went past.

"Whoa- no offense, Carter, but you're not my type."

"We got a problem." She muttered. She waited until they were in her car and moving to start talking.

"What are we gonna do about it?" Fusco said.

"We're going after them. Wakefield's going to kill them."

"Really using the blue-jacking thing, huh?" She saw his eyes flick to the speedometer, inching upwards. "You're not gonna catch up with them. There are a couple a' roads leading out from there." She'd told him the address moments ago. "We have to cut them off."

She flicked her siren on to get the roll of traffic out of her way. "A couple is two, Fusco. Are you saying we've got fifty-fifty odds?"

"There's only one road he's going to take if he wants to hide bodies." Her gaze raked the side of his head. "Just trust me, Carter."

Fusco's directions led her to some quiet countryside in the middle of New York that she had never been to before. The road was paved, barely- plagued with potholes and cracked edges, faded yellow paint along the lines.

Carter leaned forward. Ahead, very far ahead, was a large white car.

"That's it." She said. The ambulance was approaching them. As they neared it spun into a violent U-turn, tilting half off the road, before speeding in the opposite direction. A metal bar slid off the back and careened to the side. She swore.

"These aren't your average criminals. If they know about Glasses then they're way above our heads. They're not gonna pull over."

She stamped on the gas. They were getting close- ambulances were fast, but cop cars chewed pavement. "Might want to hold onto something." She said.

"Wait- what are you going to- No." Fusco said in disbelief."

"Buckle up, Fusco." Carter said.

"No." He repeated. "No you are _not_ taking pointers from Mr. Sunshine."

Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

The doors of the ambulance flew open and she saw Reese, Samantha Groves. She slammed the heel of her hand onto the car horn.

A thin ditch opened on the side of the road, leading into a wide, shallow river- probably an offshoot of the Hudson. They were approaching another curve. Good. The ambulance would be off balance, hugging the inside, tilting a touch off-balance. Carter hoped Reese was holding onto something.

She took a deep breath- recalled the food truck Reese had totaled two weeks ago, she'd been called out to clean up the mess, Reese's car hadn't faired that badly, had it?- and stamped on the gas.

* * *

The ambulance tilted; there was a scraping noise, a clatter, as if something had fallen onto the road. A metal bar, then, not a lock. Reese almost shook his head at the sloppiness, but instead devoted his attention to getting the doors open. He gripped the side of the stretcher and kicked them.

The doors swung open: that split second of vertigo with the gray racing beneath them.

A car honked.

Reese's head jerked up. Carter's car, maybe thirty, thirty-five feet farther down. Even from the distance he saw Fusco's alarmed look.

"Are those your- detective friends?" Root panted.

"Guess we don't need a plan after all." Reese said. Carter's sirens were blaring and Wakefield wasn't stopping- if anything, the ambulance had sped up. The detective's car reciprocated.

"What are they going to do?"

Reese knew that look on Carter's face. It was the same expression she'd worn when she had smashed her car into Sophia Campos's scumbag boyfriend's. Reese suddenly wished he hadn't worked so hard on getting the doors opened.

The ambulance hugged a curve. Reese had time to haul himself backward and hang onto something before Carter slammed into them.

The car rolled; gauze and bandages and syringes hailed down on him, thank god the sharper objects were near the front. Reese's lower body careened into one of the cabinets. He heard Root shriek, felt one of her legs tangle with his. The car rolled again and he had to fight to keep his fingers clenched around the rail he was holding onto. His shoulder went numb as something metal glanced off his shoulder.

Then the sound of water; it broke the fall. The car rocked, came to a stop. Reese released the rail, felt himself slide a few feet towards the front. It took him a minute to gather himself. He turned his head to the side: Root- cut on her cheek, eyes wide, intact. He dragged himself to his feet and staggered out of the ambulance.

Warm, stagnant water up to his ankles. A car screeched to the side of the road and Carter and Fusco jumped out.

"Stay down, John." Carter called. They hurried down the slope and spread out around the front of the ambulance. Reese saw movement in the corner of his eye.

Wakefield darted out from the other side of the ambulance, his gun leveled at Carter.

"Carter!" Reese shouted.

A bang.

For a split moment of horror- _not again no no-_ he expected to see a hole appear in her chest. Instead Wakefield collapsed, blood spreading across his shirt. Fusco lowered his gun.

"I am your back-up, remember?" He said to Carter.

Carter managed a weak smile.

Reese stumbled to Wakefield. Checked his pulse. Nothing.

"And you're welcome." Fusco said, to him. "How many times have we saved your ass now?"

Reese's head jerked up. "He was our only lead." He snapped.

Fusco winced, then moved his hands in a _whaddyawantmetodo?_ gesture _._

Reese ground his teeth together. He wiped a trickle of blood running into his eye away with the back of his hand.

"Don't be so dramatic, John. We still have one left." Root was splashing through the water. She was barefoot- either she'd lost her heels in the crash or she was too unsteady to use them. She knelt beside Wakefield and reached into his pocket. "A lead." She said, holding up his phone. "He made a call to Decima- using an _unsecure line._ Give me an hour. I can track him." She stood. "Detectives," She said, smiling brightly. "I don't think we've met."

She held out her hand; neither of them took it.

"Do you mind if I sit in your car? I'm a little cold. Thank you."

Reese steadied himself against the side of the ambulance.

"Hey." Fusco said, noticing the bloody fingerprint Reese had left. "Don't do that. We've got enough of a mess to clean up here without you getting in the mix."

Carter sighed. "Fusco, drive them back into town, then get back here. I'm going to call this in in twenty minutes."

Fusco scowled up the slope. "You want me to play chauffer to that nut job? We should lock her up."

"I'd let you," Reese said, "but I need her."

Fusco turned back to Reese. "I might not be on your playing field, but you really think she's tellin' the truth?" He hesitated. "What if he's gone, and she's using you?"

Reese twitched. But Carter had been right when she'd said that some people clung to revenge, because it was all they had left to hold on to. He started walking up the slope. Behind him, a murmur; a moment later he heard Carter struggling to match his pace.

"J-"

"Don't." He rounded on her, slipping a little on the wet slope.

She held up her hands. "I know you're going to go whether he's alive or not and I'm not going to try to stop you. But she was wrong."

Reese shook his head in a questioning movement.

"About you being a bullet, a weapon. You're more than that."

"You really should stop eavesdropping."

"Listen to me. You need to stop thinking that your life is less important than everyone else's. I know that if you find him you're ready to throw your life away to save him- and I sure as hell know Finch wouldn't want that."

Reese swallowed. He didn't trust his voice enough to answer.

Carter sighed. "Just be careful."

"Well." He said finally, managing to throw in just a hint of irony, "You know me."

"Exactly."

 


	4. Chapter 4

 Finch heard the quiet beep as the key code was inputted, instantly started to throw up his mental walls, shock his sluggish brain into alertness. The door swung open. He refused to acknowledge Greer as he walked in- until the smell of the food worked its way into his olfactory sensors.

"Good morning, Mr. Finch. I thought  you might like some breakfast."

Breakfast- he hadn't had much of anything that resembled breakfast in two days.

"Terry orange muffins with eggs. Medium-done." Greer set the plate on the table beside him. "Eat," He said, "And then we'll go for a little stroll." He stepped out of the room.

Finch finished, somewhat quickly, then decided to test just how well his wound was healing. He sat up.

The pain was nauseating. It rippled through his stomach and rolled out in crashing waves that turned his vision spotty. He clenched his teeth together and gripped the side of the bed till his fingers turned white. But he had dealt with pain before. Maybe even worse pain. When he had it pinned down and compartmentalized he decided to attempt standing.

Greer returned when he was somewhat steady on his feet.

Finch knew he had been watching him.

It was the first time Finch had seen anything but the interior of the office in two weeks. The floor was devoid of people, but among the cubicles and computer monitors were shuffles of paper and half-full trash bins, as if it had been vacated rapidly.

"Let me show you something." Greer said, flicking one of the computers on. That comforting whir. Finch's fingers itched to sweep across the keyboard.

As the computer booted up Finch observed the room. No abandoned phones or bits of technology on the desks. But there was an electrical box near the far right corner. Two surveillance cameras. Two doors, one on each end of the room. Things he could use, if Greer weren't a foot away, if his guards- Finch could tell by the shadows of their feet- weren't outside the doors.

"Ah." The man said, sounding pleased.

Finch looked.

It was code, lines and lines of it, an elegant string that stretched down the page. Oddly familiar.

His breath caught. "Is that-?"

"It is indeed your code. A modified version of it, in any case. I had my best employees analyze the code off your virus. We've managed to replicate it, to great effect."

"How long..."

"Three years."

Finch let a blank curtain fall over his expression, tried to mask his horror. Three years, since they had found the laptop. Three years, they'd been working with his code, changing it, twisting it, creating some patchwork replica of the Machine.

"Why are you showing me this?" He asked softly.

"Because you, Mr. Finch, are a pragmatist. I thought it would be sporting of me to allow you to discontinue delaying the inevitable."

"If you're building a Machine then why am I _here?_ " He despised the tinge of desperation that spun his voice out of control by the last syllable. "Why do you want to find my Machine?"

Greer stared at him, unblinking.

And it dawned on him. This time he couldn't keep the emotion out of his face. "You're looking for it... so you can destroy it."

He bobbed his head. "We never wanted your crippled black box. We wanted access, not control. I don't consider myself much of an anarchist, but I must admit that the intel your government receives from the Machine makes planning chaos rather inconvenient." He paused. "You asked me why you were here. I gave you one reason. _This_ is the second." He gestured vaguely at the code. "I'm afraid that while my best employees are really very good, you are better. I thought our code could use a bit more refinement."

Finch wanted to laugh at the sheer ludicrousness of his offer. "Why would I help you?"

"I know that a man of your caliber of intelligence must harbor some desire to see what it is a Machine could really do... without restraints... contingencies... precautions."

It had occurred to him before, the limitless power of an artificial intelligence system that had access to every piece of technology in the world: every phone, every laptop, every power grid. How much havoc it could create, able to turn a stoplight on a second too late, a walk-sign on too soon. Cut loose and running wild, programmed without the inherent goal to _protect_ people.

When he asked the question, he thought he already knew the answer: "And your Machine? What will it do?"

Greer stood. "Everything yours will not."

* * *

They touched down a few miles outside of London: at night, the city was startlingly beautiful, lit and glowing and vivified. Root had tracked the call to England, narrowed it down to an IT building in the middle of the capital. Reese hadn't bothered to question her computer wizardry. He had hired a private jet- commercial wasn't fond of guns, let alone the kind of firepower Reese preferred: _"Are you really that afraid of techies and script kitties?" Root had asked skeptically, eying his duffel bag._ Most of the seven-hour flight Reese stayed awake, mind racing, chasing down possibilities and plans. But Root was tapping away at her laptop, light reflecting off so her face turned owlish and shadowy, and the noise reminded Reese enough of the late nights in the Library that he managed to drift off at some point.

After they landed they checked into a hotel: Lanesborough, an upscale place, high-end service and an attractive view. They hadn't booked it for good room-service, though- they'd paid for  the room because it had a direct sightline on Decima's shell company.

AdrasteaTech.

Reese was perched at the window sill, peering down a detached scope at the building. Root, as always, was behind him, glued to her circuitry. The location of AdrasteaTech wouldn't have been Reese's first choice: too exposed, too chaotic. London bustled around it, taxis coming and going, crush of business people, tourists. A dozen snipers could have been positioned in the surrounding buildings, hidden behind every glinting windows. Sleeper agents staked out on each corner.

"I need the building plans." Reese said, without turning. "If he has surveillance cameras on the outside, fair guess he has them inside. Can you get access?"

"Let's find out."

Reese leaned forward. A man emerged from Decima's building. He stepped out of the revolving doors and- Reese blinked. Gone. His eyes perused the taxis, the sidewalk. Twice he thought he saw the telltale color of the man's coat, before dismissing the figure. He sat back again, forehead furrowing. Not a bad location, then, after all: the chaos was easy, perfectly easy, to become lost in. Reese mentally kicked himself. Greer wouldn't have gotten as far as he had without being intelligent.

"I can't imagine ever working in a place like this. Rotting inside a cubicle surrounded by paper-pushing twits..."

Reese turned and paced over to Root. On her screen was real-time footage of the interior of AdrasteaTech. It was a large floor, crammed with a cubicle forest and at least thirty, forty employees. The camera filtered the light blue, reflecting oddly off the array of white shirts. Reese had to admit that he wouldn't want to spend a lifetime there either.

Along the side of the monitor were the small boxes of the remaining camera feeds. Root was clicking through them rapidly. Office floors, all of them identical, all of them surveyed from nearly every angle. Two guards posted on each floor: well-trained, too, their hands constantly near their guns, eyes scanning the room. Titanium doors. Apparently ID swipes were required by all employees to either enter a floor or leave. Root flicked onto another view.

"Stop." Reese said. He tapped his index finger on the screen, ignoring her disgruntled look. An empty hallway, a door guarded by two men. She clicked the next slide and they saw the span of a room, vacated: nothing but a closed door. "What floor are you on?"

"...six."

"Is there a camera inside that room?"

She tapped a key and the small squares took over the screen. Dozens. Impeccably-dressed employees shredding papers and filling coffee cups, guards changing shifts, key codes entered.

Reese's hand was already closing over the mouse before he'd even registered what he'd seen. Root hissed through her teeth- it was almost enjoyable being around her sheerly because she irritated so easily- and removed her hand from under his.

Reese steered the cursor towards one of the feeds.

An office; a bed, white sheets; glasses folded and lain on the table; a figure lying on his back. Finch looked haggard, deep shadows pooling under his eyes, worry lines on his forehead, one hand fretting absently on the covers above his injury.

Reese took a rapid step away: the backs of his legs hit the bed and he sat down. And maybe he hadn't believed it, maybe some smarter or more logical part of his brain had figured that his own hope was twisting Root's words into truths. But it was true. Finch was alive.

He put his hands on his knees and exhaled.

"I used to care about my friend Hanna like that." Root said softly. "She was all I had."

He looked at her. _All I had:_ a few hours the same words had ran through his head. Past all her natural crazy she had lost someone, like all of them. He was opening his mouth to respond when she turned back to the screen.

"I assume you saw the use of 6-digit codes and ID cards." She said calmly. "The doors are controlled by electromagnetic locks- _fail safe_."

Reese understood. "Which can be bypassed during a power outage."

"Exactly. One blackout and you'll have access to every room of every floor. Including his."

"Can you do it?"

"What will it take to get you to stop asking silly questions, John?" She shifted in her seat. "He didn't look good. How are you going to get him out of there?"

He stared at her reflection in the laptop screen. "Ever heard of crowd control?"

* * *

Reese stepped into AdrasteaTech. The lobby was large enough to create echoes: a wide, drafty ceiling, cracked marble facade, heavy Greek-looking pillars acting as supports. There was a circular desk near the far back and two doors, one on each side of it. It was mostly empty, a few well-dressed stragglers loitering in the room; Reese doubted that the bulges in their pockets were files or folders.

The empty space of the lobby was disturbingly tactical: one slip and he'd be shot before he could even try for cover. But he felt ready, too ready, every nerve end humming with the high-flying euphoria that got good agents killed. His footsteps rippled through the room. He'd only infrequently carried a briefcase before and it kept thudding against his legs.

"Shall I give you a countdown or would you rather just wait for the 'boom'?" Root's voice came through his earwig.

"Just make sure everyone's clear." Reese replied in an undertone. He reached the desk.

"Name?"

"Rooney. John Rooney."

The woman started typing on her computer.

The wall shook. A pen on the counter rolled towards Reese. The woman's fingers skated off the keys, chair screeching as she half-stood. The guards whipped around; throughout the room, the few people stiffened, hands falling to their waists.

Screams. The doors opened and workers flooded the lobby in  tidal wave. The sound still carried faint echoes through the room- although it had originated in the back alley behind the building, in a dumpster. Where Reese had planted it two hours ago.

A man staggered into Reese, eyes wide and startled.

"I'm shutting off the power." Root said as Reese moved rapidly towards the doors. "Get in there now."

He struggled through the buffer of people flooding the opposite direction: briefcases, scattered paper, limbs knocking into him. A guard shoved past Reese, muttering on his mike.

The interior of the office was even more chaotic than the outside. People were shouting, fighting for the doors, cubicles being pushed into disorder and coffee cups smashed on the floor. It was the same easily-induced chaos that benefited the outside of the tech shell. He was glad now he hadn't attempted a direct assault. It would have been a tactical nightmare for anyone who wasn't fond of using human shields. He broke into a run and reached the door on the far side.

The lights went off.

Instant black. He'd been expecting it, but the thick, suffocating darkness was still disorienting. Screams exploded behind him as he knelt and pulled a torch from his briefcase with one hand and his gun with the other. Reese went through the door.

A hallway.

He moved quickly; he'd been in blackout situations before, but it wasn't easy sweeping the light over the floor to avoid tripping over anything, sweeping it ahead to keep from being surprised by anyone, and keeping his gun up in case he was. He wanted to move rapidly and get out fast.

"Go all the way back, take two lefts and a right." Root said.

He turned the corner.

"There should be a staircase along the- lights ahead, coming your way, now." She said.

"What are the guards on Finch's floor doing?"

"They've located flashlights and are moving towards the stairwell."

Three flashlight beams illuminated Reese.

He plastered what he hoped was a frightened expression on his face. "There was an explosion back there. I didn't know-" Glint of metal off light. Reese dove to the ground, heard a bullet whistle past. In the same movement that had taken him to the floor he brushed the switch on the torch with his thumb and under that darkness sent himself rolling into the guards' legs. Tangle of limbs. A muffled shout. Reese threw his elbow backwards, heard a rewarding grunt of pain. For once, bad odds were working in his favor: in the dark it was chaos, they wouldn't know who their fists were connecting with but every hit of Reese's was a good one.

His fingers touched metal- the flashlight- and he curled them around it. An arm wrapped around his neck. Reese slammed the torch backwards- a crunch- and rolled to his feet. He sprinted down the hallway.

"Where's that staircase?"

"I-"

He fumbled along the wall. A shot- sheetrock spattered the side of his cheek as a section of the wall to his right exploded.

"I need a location _now._ "

"I can't see anything! It- it should be on the left."

Bullets rocketed through the hall. He felt something zip through the hem of his pants legs. His fingers wrapped around something metal.

Reese jerked open the door and threw himself in. He landed awkwardly on the sharp edge of a stair- another bruise. He picked himself up. He resisted the urge to flick on his light, knowing it would be a beacon in the darkness. Carefully he felt his way up the stairs.

Footsteps clamored above him. He pressed himself against the rails as dark figures and their accompanying beams of lights hurried past him.

"Picking up the bandwidth from their frequency." Root said. "Decima has correctly surmised that you are the perpetrator and has ordered all personnel to shoot you on sight."

"Good to know." Reese kept moving. He reached a door and chanced pulling out his flashlight. Fifth. He started towards the remainder of the stairs. A woman came clattering down in heels, eyes wide and terrified.

"I- explosions, the lights-" She gripped his arm.

"Just keep moving down-" He didn't see the knife. All he felt was her twist, too fast, arm blurring towards him. He caught her wrist and flung her down the stairs.

"Always the white knight." Root exclaimed. He continued to climb. "Once you're on the sixth floor, I can reboot the power. It will cause a system reset with the lock codes. They'll be able to get it back online in a few minutes- but that's your window. No one will be able to get past any of the doors."

"Trapping me inside."

"You were _supposed_ to have an escape plan."

It was true: his thinking hadn't extended past getting to sixth.

Her breath caught.

"What? Root? Root."

"They've been given a new order. Decima wants them on the sixth floor. They- they've been ordered to _eliminate_ him."

He almost stumbled.

"The guards on his floor are moving back towards the doors, now."

"Turn the power back on." Reese snapped.

"You'll be trapped-"

Footsteps pounding below him, getting closer.

"Do it."

The power came on, blindingly bright. He was on the sixth flight, the door only a couple feet away from him. He tried the door. The key code panel blinked at him. "Did you stop them?" He asked.

"Yes. For now."

He checked his gun.

"I'll turn the power back off. It will give you time to get in before-" She stopped.

"What's wrong?"

"I underestimated them. They've locked onto my signal. Decima's men are on my hotel floor. I need to go."

"Wait-"

"The authorities are on their way. I wish you the best of luck, John."

"Root, wait. Don't-" The line disconnected.

He swore. Slammed the heel of his hand against the door. Just a few feet away and a lock code.

Slowly, he turned around. The stairs were clattering with approaching footsteps.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adrastea: This is a Greek name that means "the inescapable one".


	5. Chapter 5

Finch jerked awake at the sound of the explosion. He sat up, grimacing, swung his legs off the bed and limped towards the door. Screams, shouting- gunfire. Vainly, he tried the door.

The lights went out.

The darkness felt smooth, silky, surprisingly comforting. It was the first time in two weeks that he knew there weren't eyes on him. He stiffened. A blackout. Key-code door locks. Slowly, barely daring to hope, he reached out and gripped the handle of the door.

The outer office looked different in the night: odd and still and bathed in moonlight. Silvery flecks of it streamed through the windows, illuminating the computer monitors, glancing off the walls. And below: a city outside blazing with light, the tall and unmistakable shape of a clock tower at its center.

He was in London.

Distracted, his leg slammed into the edge of a cubicle. He twisted awkwardly. Bit back a cry of pain and clutched at the bullet-wound as his abdomen flared in agony. Voices sprung up outside the office. The handle rattled as it began to turn.

The lights flickered back on.

Finch watched the door jam midway.

"Damnit-"

"Your code-"

"-not working."

Finch turned, towards the cubicle; he was pressing the power button and throwing himself into the chair before he'd even paused to think what he was doing. But there was no time, almost none: they'd be through in minutes, and he had long resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn't get the chance to set foot in the Library again. See Bear. Reese.

His fingers blurred across the keys as he hacked into Greer's drives. The code... Another spatter of gunfire outside made his back go rigid.  With a few clicks of the mouse he brought up the camera feeds, concentrating on the sixth floor and the stairways.

If there was one thing he had to do- could do- before they got to him, it was destroying Greer's Machine.

As Finch was scanning the footage he froze.

On the screen was a tall man, dark haired, holding a gun and wearing a suit.

* * *

Four of Decima's hirelings were sprawled on the stairs, clutching bloodied legs. Two guards appeared around the corner and Reese took them out. He checked his magazine. Click. More footsteps. Six guards spun around the corner- Reese got the first two before they'd reached him, third as the man was pulling the trigger. One of the remaining two slammed into Reese.

Hard edge of the stair digging into his back and the cool metal of the railing. Reese twisted, drove his fist into the other's gut. The second man leveled his gun; Reese knocked the first man off him, into the second, sent them tumbling down the stairs. Another guard let out a shout as he dodged them. He reached the landing.

Reese was looking at a black metal barrel like he'd done so many times before, except this time he didn't have time to move, didn't have time to lift his gun. _Sorry I failed Finch-_

The lights went out.

He didn't waste time trying to figure out how or why Root came back. He rolled to the side, just as a bullet veered into the place he'd been moments before. Sparks skittered along the stairs. Reese whipped around, pushed through the door. Two torchlight beams at the end of what appeared to be a narrow hallway.

"-can get through the doors now-"

Metal clicked as one of the men started to turn a door handle.

Reese aimed center-mass in the direction of the light.

A yell. Return fire spat down the hallway, tearing through the floor and the hall and spraying him with sheetrock. He dove to the ground. The door burst open behind him. Four gray shapes crowded the doorway, guns lifting towards the torch light.

"Don't shoot!" A panicky voice from the far end. "He's behind you-"

Reese shot the four guards in the legs. He rolled behind the open door, watched the flickering orange and yellow of sparks as bullets hailed into the door. He waited till the maelstrom let up. Then he swung his arm around the side and shot, blind. A thud: the flashlight dropped, its beam sweeping over the wall as it rolled.

Reese came out from behind the door. Pounding footsteps on the stairway.  He kicked the door shut and moved rapidly along the hallway, running his hands over the wall. The door...

His fingers curled around a handle. He went in.

Moonlight and the city as a backdrop and abandoned computer monitors. There was a gray figure on the left side of the wall. Reese lifted his gun, finger skating on the trigger-

The lights came back on.

He jerked his arm down. For an instant he couldn't say anything.

The other man turned, giving him a weary smile. "I must say I did not anticipate this, John. Although I suspect I should have guessed it was you as soon as explosions got involved." He removed one hand from what appeared to be an electrical box.

"Harold." He moved quickly to his side. "Are you hurt?" Instantly Reese started to search for the bullet wound. Finch stopped him, took a step back and looked at him, as if he- _he,_ the one who'd been missing for fourteen days- were checking to make sure Reese was alright. So the taller man reciprocated. Finch was drawn, terribly pale, moonlight creating odd hollows in his face. They stared at each other and the office was quiescent and the noises below were so far away they hardly even registered, and the moment was still enough to feel timeless.

Reese broke the silence. "I thought- I thought you were dead."

"I'm quite alright, Mr. Reese." Finch said, almost gently. He slipped around him, his limp heavier than normal. He sunk into one of the chairs of a cubicle and started drumming the keys.

"What are you doing?"

Reese stepped behind the man's chair, glanced towards the doors, then back. Several windows appeared on the monitor: the surveillance footage, lines of code.

"Greer has been using my code to build another machine. I'm gonna destroy it. Destroy _everything_." There was a hint of fury in Finch's voice that startled Reese.

"They won't stay locked out for long."

Sirens on the night air. The flashes of red, blue, and white below them mixed with the argent light, gave the room the odd effect of a strobe-light.

"MPA is in the building." Finch murmured.

Reese watched a corner of the screen, where the Metropolitan Police were searching the lower level floors, making their way up the stairs. He leaned forward.

Greer was on the third floor, half bent over a computer. His fingers were moving across the keyboard. Six of his personnel stood behind him. A beeping noise. Reese glanced towards the door in time to see words blink across the key code panel: ACCESS INITIATED. Greer straightened and the men started towards the doors.

Reese swore under his breath and grabbed two of the chairs at the cubicles. He shoved them up under the door handle, dragged a table across the room and flipped it in front of them.

He returned to Finch's side. "How long is this going to take, Finch?"

"As long as it takes."

Reese exhaled through his teeth.

Pounding on the door.

Greer's men were on the fourth floor.

" _Hurry up, Finch_."

Fifth.

"Halfway done." He responded, absently.

"We don't have time for you to finish." Reese put his hand on Finch's shoulder. "We need to go."

Finch shook him off. "You have no idea- _I_ have no idea- the kind of destruction his Machine will do to this world."

Sixth floor.

"Is stopping him more important than _your own life?_ " Reese said.

"Yes."

"Yeah, well it isn't to me." Reese wrapped his arm around Finch's and hauled him out of the chair. "I'm sorry."

"Mr. Reese-"

He pulled him towards the door at the opposite end- the security feeds had shown him which way was clear.

"Reese, stop- John-"

Reese reached the door and linked his ankle around the edge to slam it shut behind them. A hallway, stairs. Finch twisted, violently, struggled to untangle himself; he elbowed Reese in the side. Reese took the blows. He kept his arm latched around Finch's to keep the other man from pulling away.

"What are you doing?" Finch rasped. "We have to stop him. My life is not more important than the damage that _thing_ will cause-"

He hauled Finch down the stairs, careful as he could with the other man's injury, his protests breaking off and on between gasps of pain. The doors clanged open behind them. Greer and his men burst through.

Reese whipped out his gun. The doors had slammed into the back wall and a deep, metallic thrum echoed through the hall as they stared at each other down the barrels of their guns. Greer and his men slowly descended to the landing Reese and Finch stood on.

"Mr. Reese." Greer said, calmly. "I suppose I should have expected as much. Never match a doctor against an ex-CIA hit man."

"Wakefield's dead."

"Pity. He was a talented surgeon. Your friend there can attest to that."

Reese felt Finch straighten, take one small step towards his captor.

"I hacked your hard drive." Finch said quietly. "Deleted the code."

Greer went rigid. His mouth set into a hard line. "All of it?"

"No. But enough to stop you for now."

Several beats went by. "For now." He repeated. "Don't delay the inevitable. If you believe the work you and your partner are doing is accomplishing something, think what you could accomplish on our side. Help us. With or without you, we will succeed."

Finch considered. "Not today."

"No. Not today."

Tension slicked down Reese's arms; his muscles were cramping under the tautness of his position, every fiber focused on pulling the trigger. Several of the light fixtures in the stairway had shorted out from the blackouts, the dimmer lighting leaving the walls with deep, shadowy bruises.

A staccato of footsteps below them. Greer turned slightly. Voices, British accents, several swiftly-called commands. The Metropolitan Police.

Reese shifted. They couldn't get arrested- not with Finch's bullet wound, with his multiple aliases and need to remain off the grid; not with Reese's dark, unsavory background of ops in the country.

"Greer." Reese said. "You've read my file. You know that I can shoot both the three guards in front of you and you before any of your men have time to react."

"You wouldn't risk your partner's life."

"I'll push him behind me. Which means four of you will be dead and before your other two guards get the chance the MPA will be on the landing." He felt Finch's gaze boring into him.

The footsteps were making a cacophony on the metal.

Reese let a cold, flat razor-edge enter his voice. "Ordering your men to shoot gains you nothing." He said.

Greer's mouth twisted into the shape of a smile. It was disconcertingly bare. "Live to fight another day, Reese?"  He called a command. Guns slipping out of sight, slight bulges in their pockets, police decked in uniforms reaching the landing. Six men, one woman, five dressed in the collared white shirts and police vests, the other two uniforms from the bomb squad.

One of the cops stepped forward. "Keep moving down, sirs. We're clearing the building. There could be more explosives."

Another cop peered at Finch. "Is he alright?"

Finch did one of his slight, full-bodied turns, as far as his body and Reese's grip would allow. He stared at the head of Decima. "I'm afraid I was hit by a small, fast-moving projectile. Nothing to worry about." There was either a trace of flinty humor or anger in his voice, so sharp and brief Reese couldn't distinguish which.

Reese's nerve-endings crackled like live wires. His fingers twitched restlessly. Four feet away and Greer could do nothing to them and Reese could do nothing to him. All Reese knew was that Greer had the better end of the deal.

"Sir, please." One of the policemen said to Reese, gesturing toward the stairs.

He turned back to Greer. The man gave Reese a slight, small nod. _Until next time._

Reese jerked his chin down. When that time came, he would be ready.

* * *

"You sure this is a good idea?"

Reese had just cut the ignition to his car, several blocks from the library. During the flight they had gone through a lengthy back-and-forth on whether their stronghold was still secure.

Finch had insisted they return.

"Greer found us through our work, not the Library." Finch paused, took a careful drink from a glass resting in the cup holder. Reese had stocked him up on food, medication, and amenities since they had reached the plane. "It occurs to me that one good thing might have come out of this."

Reese shot him a questioning glance.

"Our predicament with the government: once again, they think I'm dead."

Reese resisted to urge to take Finch's glass, pour half out, and leave it half full. He wasn't sure Finch would get the sarcasm at the moment.

"Greer's worse." He said, a cool, hard edge to his tone. "He's worse than them."

Finch's mouth tightened. "Perhaps. Deleting part of the code ensured that their Machine will suffer a set-back. But one day- soon- they will succeed."

"And when they do?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

Reese scoped out the Library before allowing his employer to go in. Darkness- nothing changed, nothing disturbed, a fine coat of dust settled over the table, the monitors, their list. If he left- had turned from their mission- he wondered how long the pictures would hang on the board. Knew that, were demolition crews to track their way in years later, they would see nothing but a few photos and numbers. Know nothing about what it all meant.

The gate rattled as Finch stepped up behind him. "I need to check the numbers." Finch said.

Reese lightly dropped his hands on the other man's shoulders and steered him away from the computer monitors."You need to get some rest."

"Can't rest when there are people in danger, Mr. Reese."

Reese grinned slightly at the automatic reply. "You can't _work_ when you're this exhausted." He responded. "I've got Carter and Fusco, Finch. The world will keep turning for a few hours, at least."

Finch chuffed out a laugh.

"Something funny?"

"You remind me of someone."

Reese felt some of the tension drain out of Finch's shoulders and began to guide him towards one of the spare bedrooms they had set up in the Library. A door, half hidden by books. It swung open with a dusty creak.

Finch turned suddenly. "What happened to the numbers while I was gone?"

Reese missed a step. "I'm sorry, Harold."

Finch peered at him.

"I thought you were gone. Carter, she wanted me to keep helping people." He shook his head, a sharp, helpless movement. He hadn't wanted to think about the people he had let down during those two weeks. How many people he could have saved.

"Mr. Reese-"

He held up a hand. "I know you don't agree with what I did. If all you wanted was a hireling, you should have given someone else my job."

He was surprised when Finch put a hand on his arm.

"I was going to say thank you, John."

Reese blinked.

"It was what I wanted to say before." He flinched slightly. "On the boardwalk."

And just as Reese would never apologize for putting the other man's safety above the numbers, or, if it eventually came to it, if Greer's Machine changed everything, allowing the world to burn if it meant saving him, Finch would never thank Reese for those actions. He was thanking him for being a partner, a friend.

Reese slowly absorbed this. Finch was gazing at a point slightly above Reese's shoulder, as if he didn't want his words to be acknowledged.

So Reese just nodded, a slight, barely perceptible movement that conveyed more than words ever would. He turned slightly. "Night, Harold."

"Goodnight, John."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, all, for reading! And to those of you who left comments, thank you for the kind feedback- it's been very encouraging, especially since I'm rather insecure about posting.


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